all our fairytales give us purpose
by ohlookrandom
Summary: Every story has a moral; and those morals define who you are.
1. the ugly duckling

A character study on three of the sisters from their own points of view, I suppose! Written for my friend Erin because she really wanted a Downton Abbey fanfic. :)

I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: If I own Highclere Castle, do I own Downton Abbey? No? Well, it was worth a shot.

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_One day, he heard children on the river bank exclaim: "Look at that young swan! He's the finest of them all!" _  
_And he almost burst with happiness._

* * *

Being the youngest was never much of a problem for Sybil Crawley.

When she was ten, her governess came in panting, obviously hot and bothered by having scoured the entire estate looking for her. "Milady!" she had gasped, rushing over to Sybil, who had been serenely sitting in the window seat overlooking the gardens with a book in hand. "Milady, where have you _been_?"

"Reading." Sybil swung her legs off the window seat. "I'm sorry, were you looking for me long?"

"Was I-" Her governess drew herself up to all five feet two inches, only managing to be slightly taller than Sybil at exactly five feet. "I was indeed, milady! Please don't rush off like that. Your sisters never gave me so much trouble, wandering off into the corners of who knows where!"

"Well," was Sybil's patient answer, "I'm not my sisters then, am I?"

Her favorite fairytale was _The Ugly Duckling_. Robert often jokingly blamed Cora for this, as she was the one who had first read the story to Sybil when her youngest was preparing for bed; but it was Cora who reminded him just as jokingly that he was the one who continued to read the story to Sybil long after Cora had stopped. Neither of them could have imagined the implication a simple story about a tiny duckling would have on their youngest.

Even at six, the theme of being different and of being something that society disapproved of resonated within Sybil. She loved the duckling, even going so far as to beg Cora to let her have a pet duck of her own, and how she would cherish it. Cora, however, gently brushed her daughter off, only saying, "It's only a story, Sybil dear, nobody ever really gets pushed away like that." And even at six, Sybil was already vowing to look for the ducklings in life so she would never make the mistake of degrading them.

Being the youngest, Sybil was in danger of always being overshadowed by her sisters. Mary, of course, was devastatingly charming and in many cases, beautiful. It was difficult not to notice how young men stared whenever she walked into the room. Edith was just as beautiful, if not more reserved, and she was by virtue older than Sybil. That fact alone commanded attention. By tradition Mary would be married first, then Edith- Sybil would come last.

Sybil, however, was a girl born in a different era, a mind adapted to change. She saw not her older, and therefore more powerful sisters- she saw them all as equals, and as such bore not the resentment Edith had towards Mary or the envy Mary hid from Edith. She truly and honestly believed that they could become more than who they were, more than pieces of the furniture.

More than anything, Sybil grabbed at the idealistic notion of her fairytale that she could become _something_, _someone_, bigger, worthier, someone capable of beginning a new life, free from the constraints of the upper class.

Later in life, Robert would turn to Cora the night of his youngest's perceived betrayal: "It's _your _fault," he grumbled angrily, "_you're _the one who introduced her to that blasted fairytale and now she has all these ridiculous notions in her head…"

So when Sybil finally entwined her fingers with Tom Branson's, her wedding band adorning her left hand, she couldn't help but grin at the thought that floated through her head: _Well, well, the duckling's finally turned into a swan_.

No, the duckling had never really had a problem with being the youngest. All she had to do was find a way to grow into something everyone thought she was not destined to be.

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As always, reviews and thoughts are welcome. :)


	2. goldilocks and the three bears

I just really, really want Edith to have a happy ending in Season Three.

Disclaimer: Nope!

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_"Someone's been sleeping in my bed and she's still there!" exclaimed Baby bear._

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Edith was the sort of child who enjoyed fairytales up until the point where somebody turned their nose up and scoffed, "Only _children_ want fairytales."

In Edith's case, that someone was Mary, and so she gave up her desire to hear any fairytales when she was only seven, preferring instead to tell Cora all about what had happened earlier that day. Cora would nod, but her eyes were distant and tired, a look Edith grew accustomed to mean "not tonight, dear, Mama's tired". Edith thus begin to learn at the age of seven and a half to acknowledge the fact that she would always be caught in limbo, stuck between being a girl and being a woman.

When she was eight, she met with a woman named Elizabeth Langley who introduced herself as the new governess. No matter what Edith said, the new governess insisted on reading her a fairytale ("Oh, don't be silly, little one, _all _children love fairytales"), and thus at the age of nine, Edith was subjected to listening to the tales of Hans Christian Andersen.

Edith hated the stories, but she could identify with one: Goldilocks and the three bears. Maybe it was because the protagonist too had yellow hair ("_bo_ring", as Mary had so artfully described it), but Edith loved the concept that there was only one perfect chair, one perfect bowl of porridge. The idea that there could be two extremes- too_ hot_, too _cold_- intrigued her.

The middle daughter began to regard her world in a different light. People became extremes- those who were too hot (Sybil, with all her tempers), those who were too cold (Mary, because she was frozen composure) and then there were those who didn't seem too firmly on either side and belonged in the middle (Edith, who tried to walk the fine line between emotion and rationale).

In that way, Edith considered herself set apart from her sisters. Mary she deemed too unforgiving, chilly in her desire to be a façade of composure, and she tried to reach out, bring Mary around to her place of understanding- but she was rebuffed. Ice tends to like being left alone to its own devices, rather than be brought into the light where it might be melted.

Sybil, being the one who burned the most passionate among all three of them, too denied Edith, albeit in a more polite and tactful manner. Edith loved Sybil, but sometimes she felt scalded by Sybil's behavior and antics, so different from her and Mary. But fire does not like to be tamed- fire likes to be free, to rampage through and bring new life to the undergrowth.

And so Edith went through her childhood on the middle path, the quiet, unassuming middle daughter who never challenged, never questioned. She played her part well- she was the _perfect _daughter by all accounts- but some days she could not resist feeling envious towards her sisters, too hot and too cold and yet receiving the love she never did.

The only thing left to do was wait. Edith often reminded herself of this fact when Mary threw her a particularly cutting remark. Some day, someone would discover that she was the perfect daughter. Some day, someone would realize the merits of the middle road, the unextreme, the comfort of being safe.

Some day.

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Thoughts are always welcome. :)


	3. daedalus and icarus

Mary was hard to write. This is my attempt to write her- in my head she didn't like anything I had to offer...

Credit goes to my friend Erin for giving me this idea.

Also, thank you all for all the reviews! You guys are wonderful and I couldn't do it without you. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey. But I do own chewing gum. That's about the same thing. Right?

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_...Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too low lest his wings touch the waves and get wet,  
and not too high lest the sun melt the wax.  
But Icarus, overwhelmed by the thrill of flying, did not heed his father's warning,  
and flew too close to the sun...  
the wax in his wings melted and he fell into the sea._

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Unlike her sisters, Mary didn't like the fairytales that the governesses, Cora or Robert attempted to read to her. From a precocious young age, she'd already asserted her refusal with an emphatic "_no_" and if _that _didn't work, there was no telling what she would do.

No, Mary Crawley was not the sort of girl who enjoyed fairytales. She wasn't like Sybil, who relished the time spent listening, or Edith, who submitted because she wanted to do what was "proper". Mary didn't like the idea that fairytales always had some sort of _moral_, some sort of happy ending. _Be a good child and you will always triumph. Be a patient child, you will get what you want. _Mary didn't like it. She would rather do what was required of her at the time to get her way. She would much rather forge her own destiny, do what was _needed_, not what was _right_.

So Mary forewent the fairytales, but she was drawn to something else instead- classic myths. She devoured tales of Athena, of Zeus, of Midas and his golden touch. Mary learned myths of Perseus, of Hercules, of Medusa. The stories of Jason and his Argonauts, of Hades and Persephone, and the classics of the _Iliad _and the Trojan War captivated Mary's attention.

"They're so much more realistic, Papa," seven year old Mary said in response to her father's puzzled stare one day when he walked into his library to find her curled up reading the _Iliad_. "Imagine, real people leading real lives!"

Well, that had led to Lord Grantham actually having to _explain _what myths were.

Nevertheless, Mary preferred reading myths and classics to fairytales. Her favorite quickly became the story of Daedalus and Icarus. The story of the two trapped prisoners in the tower quickly took shape in Mary's mind, paralleling her situation as eldest daughter, trapped in an arranged marriage with Patrick in order to secure her inheritance and stay at Downton forever.

Mary often longed to be like Icarus, to have the freedom the impetuous youth did as he took flight above the sea and tasted freedom for the very first time. She wanted to fly, to be free, to be impulsive- things the eldest daughter did not have the privilege to enjoy fully. She tried to justify it, but it almost sounded cruel to her when she tasted the freedom Patrick's death offered- is it so cruel, she asked herself, to be so happy when a man dies on a tragic accident? For freedom was something not easily gotten- the Americans and the French were key exhibits of that.

Then there was the question: _Who next_? Things did not change at Downton. The eldest still found herself trapped in a tower, unable to try, unable to fly, unable to live.

The question evolved: _How do I fly? _And so Mary began to try and put on her wings. Pamuk was her first real taste of freedom- the feeling of adrenaline, the rush of passion, the giddy feeling and the empty bottom of her stomach as she relished the adventure, felt the exhilaration course through her veins. It wasn't _right, _but she needed it.

But Icarus fell from his height because of pride, and so did Mary. _Pride comes before a fall, milady_, Anna had cautioned once very early on in their relationship during one of Mary's tantrums. Mary dutifully took the fall, came to terms with the ambassador's sudden death, and dealt with it the way she was taught to. But still she did not change. The taste of freedom was too tempting to forget; Mary had tasted the fruit of Eden, the sensation of flight and the feeling of the sun as it beat down on her fragile, fragile wings. She needed it, craved it.

So she did not change a jot, choosing instead to try and forge her own path. Matthew came; Mary turned away in pride, inwardly declaring her desire to be independent. To the eldest daughter of the household, Matthew offered not the freedom Pamuk did. It was what was _right_, but Mary did not need it.

It was not until she lost Matthew that Mary realized how far she had fallen; her wings had given out again, the fragile things broken and burned by the heat of the blazing sun. This time, it stung. There was no ambassador she could hide; this time Mary turned away broken and regretful at the chances she had missed.

Icarus fell and drowned, and Mary bitterly drew the parallel of how she felt like she was drowning in her own mistakes, pride, and remorse.

When she returned to the library one day, she bumped into Branson, who was strolling out with books under his arm. "My apologies, milady," the chauffer said pleasantly, doffing his cap as he walked past- Mary vaguely remembered her father mentioning how the chauffer loved to read. She bent to pick up the book Branson had dropped on his way out, and was surprised to find that it was the same book of Greek myths she had so loved as a child.

She reread Daedalus and Icarus's story once more, and this time she began to consciously see herself in Icarus. How she had soared, made her mistakes, and then fallen. How she had refused to heed the advice of her father, her mother, her grandmother, even Matthew himself. And Mary wept that day, for she wondered if it was too late to surface, if she could find her wings once more, or if she was destined to stay drowned with Daedalus circling, trying to find her.

The war came, and Mary found herself too busy trying to keep Matthew's spirits afloat as well as navigate her relationship with Carlisle. She felt conflicted with the both of them: with Carlisle, she felt suffocated, trapped in a tower. With Matthew, she felt liberated, free, happy- the way she had always longed for. She longed for the freedom of Icarus's wings again, but every time she looked at Matthew she was reminded of her fall, of her pride.

It was not pride that tethered her to Carlisle; it was shame.

So when she finally broke it off with Carlisle, she felt a weight slide off her back. Mary was once again a prisoner, but a prisoner of her own tower of memories and thoughts, not Richard Carlisle's nor anyone else. Mary walked away, knowing that her wings were not completely healed- she would never be able to take the heights she had soared to before- but it was a start. She would not drown.

And then it all changed when Matthew got down on one knee and took her hand in his. Mary Crawley was once more betrothed, but this time to a man of her own choosing, to a man who would make her deliriously happy. Despite all odds, Icarus had risen out of the sea. It was the idea that they myth could be retold that had captivated her all along. Her wings were healed; she was free. And with Matthew by her side, she felt as though she could finally begin to escape the prison that had held her so long, and finally she would be able to fly without fear of the sun melting her wings.

It wasn't how the story was supposed to go- but then, stories could always be retold.

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A little twist from how the previous two stories went, yeah? Maybe? Uh...

As always, reviews and thoughts are welcome! Thank you to all who reviewed again, you guys are so sweet!

Much love,  
ohlookrandom


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